Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 96: Wintermarch
Fergus and Anora announced their betrothal at a dinner party on the eighth of Wintermarch. The wedding was to take place on the twelfth of Guardian, and had scandalized many people by its early date. The two most concerned, however, agreed that the marriage could not wait. Either the darkspawn or the Orlesians could be upon them at any moment. If they did not marry now, who knew when they would?
Arl Leonas Bryland and his arlessa were not yet back in Denerim to attend the dinner, though they were expected within a few days. Arl Wulffe was also down in his own fiefdom. Arl Teagan had taken his young bride to his manor at Rainesfere. Loghain had left orders for all his nobles to muster for duty on the tenth of Guardian. Some, either too old or unsuited to arms, would be sending the captains of their militias instead. Fergus and Anora had set the date for the wedding to take place during the muster, since this would allow more people to witness their wedding than would ordinarily be present in the capital.
In preparation for this, most nobles were out in the country, giving last-minute instructions to their stewards and seneschals. Thus, the only other great nobles at the dinner were the Arl and Arlessa of Denerim. Anora would not have chosen Habren as a companion at any time, but on this particular occasion it was especially unsatisfactory. Habren certainly appeared to be satisfied with herself. It was harder to read her husband's face. It was unbelievable to Anora that he could like Habren, much less be in love with her, but she had to give him credit for tolerance. Whenever Habren said anything that could reasonably be expected to raise a blush, Kane wisely did not seem to hear her. What was more unpleasant was the expression on Habren's face when any woman dared to speak to her handsome husband... or even to look at him.
Two new nobles were at the table, looking desperately uncomfortable. Bann Alistair and Bann Cauthrien at least were properly dressed. Anora had sent Cauthrien a gift of two gowns, so her childhood companion could not make the excuse of having no clothes. Anora had no idea where Alistair had found his own finery, but he looked quite nice, and just as he should. Some young ladies tried to flirt with him, but he stared at them all in exactly the same way: like a deer run down by hounds. He managed to exchange a few, nervous words with Cauthrien, whom he knew. Anora could not hear what they were talking about.
In the end, Anora and Fergus focused on each other, which was the nicest outcome, anyway. It was growing harder and harder to resist their mutual attraction and keep faith with their plans. Nothing must cast a shadow on the legitimacy of any prospective heir. Yes, there were herbal teas, but Anora had never before used them, and she began to now, there would inevitably be talk. They were public figures; they had no reasonable expectation of privacy.
"I predicted the match," whispered Lady Seria Mac Coo, immensely smug. "Didn't I?"
"Most of Denerim predicted it," her daughter-in-law whispered back. "Who else could she marry? If a man climbed a tower to rescue me from poison and carried me all the way down, he'd deserve proper thanks for it!"
"Another match between Gwaren and Highever," muttered Bann Ceorlic to his mother. "That's a lot of power for just two families."
"At least," his mother, the Dowager Lady Rosalyn sneered, "that peasant girl can no longer Queen it over us. She'll be a subject, like the rest of us. And the poor King's ashes hardly cold..."
"A subject married to the heir to the throne!" grunted Ceorlic. "And for that matter, she was a more civilized choice than her father! There's nothing to choose between Loghain and Bronwyn and Anora and Fergus: both ways we've got a Cousland and a commoner. You'd think the Couslands would have more pride."
Their conversation was attracting attention, so Rosalyn gave her son a hard nudge, and began talking loudly of the weather.
Teyrn Fergus had engaged a very fine musician for the evening, who brought with her a little elven apprentice. The Nevarran woman played quietly throughout the meal, and then sang songs and told stories. The little elf danced charmingly, dressed in a costume that evoked a delicate snowflake. Afterwards, some of the guests politely called a servant with a silver platter over, and put coin for the performers on it. Other guests, less considerately, threw the coins at the child's feet, and chuckled to see her scramble for them. Mistress Zoe bowed, thanked the nobles for their generosity, and afterward used the experience to teach her apprentice something about noble titles not guaranteeing noble behavior—a lesson that Amethyne already knew too well. In the end, coin was a good thing, and one could despise the uncouth in private. Between the Queen and her brother the Teyrn, they were better protected than other musicians who had no powerful patrons.
During a lull, Anora spoke to Arl Kane, on her left.
"And how are your dear little sisters faring? It is so fortunate that they have each other's company."
"My thanks, Your Majesty. They're well and happy. They've got a clever governess and they're very good girls to begin with. They never give me a moment's trouble."
Habren bridled at his words. She had told Kane, again and again, all the wicked, mischievous things those wretched little brats had done, but he never seemed to hear her. It was so infuriating. He was her husband, and should believe whatever she said. What difference did it make whether what she said was true or not?
And those girls... they schemed together and tattled on her behind her back. Habren just knew it. Worse yet, one of the bitches in the Denerim kennels would whelp soon, and Kane had said that the brats would have the first go at imprinting the puppies. Clearly, Habren should have precedence.
She glared at Lady Clemency, who was leaning over the table, staring at Kane. What a slut, and her husband right there beside her. It was disgusting, how women were always leering at Kane. He was Habren's, and they would do better to chase after that bastard of Maric's, though he was a hopeless bumpkin. Really! His mother must have been a washerwoman.
And that governess of theirs was another sore point. The girl was nothing more than a servant, when all was said and sifted, and Kane paid entirely too much attention to her. Why did she have to be young and pretty? Why couldn't she be old and ugly and a good disciplinarian who would whip the little brats when they deserved it? Habren had asked Kane to get rid of the girl, but he always changed the subject; giving her compliments or presents, smiling at her in the way that was so distracting. Sulking, she did not bother to listen to the rest of the Queen's conversation.
Kane had to, and was faintly annoyed. The Dowager Queen expected him to preside in the monthly judicial sessions, overseeing the civil and criminal cases and hearing petitions. So far, the seneschal had done that for him, but everyone seemed to think it was his duty to make an appearance at some point. Kane hated debate and discussion and nitpicking. His brother was always suing someone or other, and going on and one about the wording of the laws. To this day, Kane was bored witless even thinking about it. If the Dowager thought it all so Maker-blessed important, why didn't she do it herself?
She anticipated his objection, being a horribly clever woman.
"It is a duty I would undertake myself, but my office as Chancellor makes it impossible. I must hear cases at a higher level—for example, if one noble has a claim against another. I cannot hear the city cases as well. I think you would find it interesting, my lord; and you would learn much about the city in such a way."
This was worse than Loghain telling him that he should take an interest in harbor defenses. Much worse. Kane could see the point of defending his property against an attack by foreigners, but he could not care less about slum dwellers pilfering small clothes off a laundry line or elves knifing each other. Maybe he really ought to have a fine suit of armor made, and walk down to the harbor with his officers. If he did that, he'd have an excuse to avoid the law court.
"I say it's time to go," Alistair declared, thumping the long table in the Wardens' Hall. "We've had plenty of rest and spent enough coin here in Denerim. I want to have a look at Soldier's Peak, and then go west and help Bronwyn."
"And you should have a look at that land of yours," Petra advised. "Maybe it's nice."
"Maybe," Alistair muttered, looking hunted, trying not to imagine the horror of presenting himself as a nobleman before the people of Stonehaven. At least he would have a mabari beside him. Fondly he rubbed Scrapper's ears. Imprinting his very own mabari was an honor and a privilege beyond any he had ever dreamed. One being in all the world put him first. It was better than being a bann. For that matter, he thought Scrapper would be a more impressive bann than Alistair himself. But why worry about that that? There were the darkspawn to hunt down, first of all.
"Let us go then," Danith agreed, rather tired of the shemlen town. "But perhaps we should leave a few here in case there is word from any of the other parties."
"And nobody who hasn't already been to Soldier's Peak," suggested Maeve. "Everybody should go there at least once."
"I'd like to live there," Quinn said wistfully. "I could go hunting."
Nuala and Steren exchanged a glance. They could not agree more. The boy was a good, sensible boy, even though he had, unfortunately, been born a shemlen.
"I'd like to go," Niall said quietly. "It's a better, safer place for mages. I know that Bronwyn's done wonders, but Uldred and his people are either locked up in Fort Drakon or traveling with army units. It's out on the street that I feel uncomfortable. The soldiers are friendly, but plenty of the common folk are still suspicious. And the Templars are watching."
"But up at Soldier's Peak there's that horrible old blood mage," Petra objected. "I can't say I'm looking forward to meeting him."
"He knows a lot, Petra," Niall said, mild and soothing. "He knows more than just blood magic. And it's like speaking to a history book. Avernus is really interesting. Besides," he added, for her ears alone. "Being up at the Peak.. in the Mage's Tower... it's like having our own Circle, far away from all the rubbish of the Chantry. The other Wardens have no trouble with us. We could—" his voice dropped to a thin whisper "I've been thinking that we could take in some apostates... maybe some children with magic. Really run an independent Circle. No Templars at all."
Petra looked at him in astonishment, and then remembered that he was an Isolationist. "We can't do anything until the Blight is over."
He bit his lip, and sighed. "Right. After the Blight is over."
Ketil and Idunn agreed to stay at the Compound. Both the dwarves enjoyed the city life of Denerim, and were not thrilled at the idea of a march through the snow, even though most of the journey would be underground.
"We'll pass on any messages," Idunn assured Alistair. "It looks like most of the action is in the west anyway, out by Orzammar."
Ketil shrugged. "And if I never see Orzammar again, that's fine with me!"
The party had the maps and the notes. Alistair could hardly wait to escape from Denerim, with its fancy dinners and the pressing attentions of strange young ladies. Nonetheless, he knew he could not simply slip away and disappear. Anora made him nervous, but Fergus was a friend, and so it was to Fergus he went.
"All right. It sounds sensible. Better to find your way before spring, certainly," the Teyrn of Highever agreed. "I'll let Anora know. You can be excused from the general muster, since you're a Warden, and you've never had a chance to raise a levy on your bannorn. We'll want to write some letters to Bronwyn and Loghain and send them by you. Maker only knows what they're up to. Go to your Warden fortress and see if you can watch the sea from it. Bronwyn didn't tell me about that. We're worried about an invasion fleet this spring."
Feeling wretched, Alistair wished he had the nerve to tell Fergus that Wardens were supposed to be neutral. They should be totally focused on the Blight. It was hopeless. He had since heard how the Orlesian Knight-Divine and that Duke had come and threatened everybody. Couldn't Riordan and the other Orlesian Wardens make them understand that what they were doing was wrong?
Fergus had originally planned for Bann Cauthrien to go with Alistair, taking along a strong unit of Maric's Shield with them. Fergus and Anora agreed that at this point Loghain would want to be reinforcing the west. However, now there was a task for Cauthrien and her soldiers to undertake in Denerim. All things considered, it would be best for Cauthrien to handle it, and then wait for Loghain's arrival. If he wanted to take her west, there would be plenty of time then.
Anora had shared with Fergus and Cauthrien Loghain's secret message about Bann Frandarel. She had not been slow to act upon it. Agents had already been dispatched to make a discreet search of the premises and to bring back anything incriminating they found. For that matter, there were some scraps and notes concerning him among the documents that Bronwyn had discovered among the papers belonging to a notorious Orlesian bard. Altogether, Anora was confident that they would have plenty of evidence against Bann Frandarel, that notorious sybarite. Father was furious at the state of West Hill. He might well be furious at the luxury and the secret treasures in the bann's Denerim mansion.
By the time father was back in Denerim and the nobles assembled, the evidence against Bann Frandarel should be enough to satisfy even the most suspicious noble. And within a day or two, Cauthrien would make the arrest. Frandarel's estate was heavily guarded. In case of a fight, the City Guard was not adequate.
At that very moment, Loghain was in West Hill, stiffening the defenses of the ancient fortress in a way that brooked no opposition. Lackadaisical guards now stood at attention, their drill much smarter, their appearance less disreputable. His people were spreading out, scouting the bannorn, making new maps. They had found the old building Tara had declared to be the location of the Aeonar prison. Loghain went out himself to take a look, and was unimpressed. If the time and necessity came, there would be no problem locking the place down.
He was more concerned with the general condition of West Hill itself. Aside from the dilapidated fortress, the whole bannorn was seriously underpopulated, and it took time for Loghain to understand why.
After a thorough perusal of the bannorn's accounts, it became evident that Frandarel had been demanding excessive tithes and taxes of his freeholders, and then when they were unable to pay, he was evicting them and seizing their lands. Part of his motivation was to eliminate inconvenient witnesses to his secret dealings with foreign powers. Then, too, he had decided that he needed a great deal more pasturage for his flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. Destroying the freeholders created great swathes of land for said livestock. It had not been evident at first, since the animals were being sheltered for the winter, but now Loghain knew. It was difficult not to dash back to Denerim at once, since what Frandarel had done was exactly what the Orlesians had done to Loghain's family, decades before. It would not stand. A large prosperous freeholding class was the backbone of Ferelden. It was the foundation of its productivity, and the source of its war-time levies. Frandarel's livestock would be seized along with the rest of his holdings, and it would feed the army very well indeed.
He tasked a clerk with making a list of the dispossessed freeholders. Perhaps some would return and be repatriated. West Hill would be a royal desmesne, its coin flowing into the kingdom's treasury. Frandarel was unmarried and childless, so there was unlikely to be a blood feud.
What to do with the man's sprawling Denerim estate? That would be seized by the Crown, too. Anora had an idea in her head about some sort of school. What was it called? A college... a university? It sounded like nonsense to Loghain, since Anora only wanted such a thing because the Empress had one. It would be useful only for the idle children of the nobles, who had better things to do. However, if there was some sort of school to teach real, practical things, that might not be such a bad idea.
He thought about it at length, alone in the rooms he had made his in West Hill. Sipping his wine and scratching out some ideas on parchment, Loghain became more and more reconciled to the concept of a school.
Why should the Chantry have a monopoly on education? As they taught, they taught lessons in obedience to the Divine and her priests. Maybe another school, teaching loyalty to the kingdom and respect for its traditions might be a very fine thing. The children of freeholders and merchants and artisans could go there for a year or two, and learn their numbers and letters and the history of their country with a minimum of twaddle. They would go home and spread their learning, like yeast in bread dough. Educating a young woman was tantamount to educating all her future children.
A library was not so bad, either. Loghain disliked the idea of other kingdoms keeping knowledge from Ferelden. They could have a collection of books for people to study, and some guards to keep the books in the library, where they belonged.
But the estate was so large. Surely only a few rooms were needed for the school and the library. Perhaps a portion could be given to Cauthrien or Alistair for a townhouse. Perhaps there was enough for both of them. He must think it over. Bronwyn might have some ideas.
Now that she crossed his mind, it occurred to him that she had not been in good spirits when they parted at Gherlen's Halt. Something was troubling her, poor girl, but he had not had time or leisure to discover it. When she was in the mood to talk, she would talk, and no doubt inform him that he had forgotten some important date or anniversary. Come to think of it, he realized that he could not remember her naming day. Was that what had put her in a temper? He must give her a nice present. That had always worked fairly well with Celia.
Of course, it could be something far more serious, and if so, he was sorry for it, but there was no way he could put off defending the Coastlands.
Thinking of Bronwyn caused him to think of Highever. In a day or two, it would be time to go there. Fergus had set people to work repairing the damage, but Loghain wanted to make sure they were following their teyrn's orders.
He must get Cauthrien out here, and some of his other first-rate officers. For that matter, Alistair needed to come out and survey his new lands. Loghain wanted someone watching the Jader Bay Hills.
Alistair enjoyed the journey north, glad to be away from the nobles. Scrapper trotted along sturdily at his side, sniffing here and there. Alistair had been given the story of the Architect and the taking of Kal'Hirol. He knew about Soldier's Peak and how it had been cleansed of its plague of demons. It was a quiet journey, full of cheerful talk and reminiscences.
He had wondered if Adaia would ask to stay behind in Denerim, but she had not. Months in the south had changed her, and she felt herself to be a warrior among warriors. And so she wished to remain.
"I want to see Soldier's Peak, too! It's supposed to be great! I wonder if the mountains by the Coastlands look like the mountains by Ostagar. Maybe we should set up a workshop at the castle like we had down south."
"Not a bad idea," Emrys remarked. "If there's an explosion, we won't bother the neighbors."
"Oh, you!" Adaia laughed. "Anyway, it's good to be on the move again. If we'd stayed any longer in Denerim, my father would have arranged another marriage and had me washing pots and some man's dirty shirts, Warden or not!"
Alistair smiled tightly. Whatever ideas he had cherished about Adaia had been proved delusional. It embarrassed him now. He had been as silly as Cullen over Tara. Why would an elf be interested in a human—someone from a race that had oppressed and humiliated elves? Adaia would do nothing that would hurt her father and her people, and they would be horrified if she took up with Alistair. For that matter, he now realized that she had never given him any real encouragement.
All he wanted was someone of his own. Well, an actual female, since he already had a dog. Grey Wardens were not forbidden to have families, and a family would be worth more than some fancy title and a bannorn—or even the name "Fitzmaric."
Fitzmaric. Alistair understood that Loghain wanted to reward him for good service. Bronwyn and Teagan meant well, too. They simply did not understand him. Being a Warden was the best thing in the world... as long as he could be a Warden with a wife... and maybe a child. Maybe two, but he didn't want to push his luck. He wanted to be the best Warden he could. He'd also like to be the best husband and father anybody had ever seen. As long as he did things as differently as King Maric had, Alistair figured he would do all right.
Not that he could say that in public. Everybody always went on about how great King Maric had been, but Alistair had not exactly been allowed to see the "great" part. Loghain seemed to have done the heavy lifting for the king, as far as ruling was concerned. Queen Rowan had died young, and from what was rumored, not very happy in her marriage. Maric had raised Cailan, and while Alistair disliked thinking ill of the dead, it was impossible not to recognize that his half-brother had been spoiled and self-absorbed: a bad king and a bad war-leader. Maric had tossed Alistair away like an unwanted kitten. Maybe Alistair was not very important in the grand scheme of things, but he knew he would never treat any child of his the way Maric had treated him.
He wished he could have chosen his own name. Bronwyn had told him that they had considered Fitztheirin or Fitzroy. Alistair liked either of those better than Fitzmaric. Or maybe he would have preferred Fitzwarden. Fitzduncan...
Fitzfiona. Wouldn't that be a kick in the Landsmeet's flabby, collective arse? He couldn't blame his mother for what had happened. The Wardens in Weisshaupt and Orlais had been hard on her. All she could do was get her child to Maric and ask him to help her. If Maric had felt anything for her, he certainly had not felt enough to do much for her son. Probably it was one of those whirlwind romances, born of shared danger and hardship. Petra said that was not a good basis for a relationship. Petra was fond of giving him advice. She thought that shared interests and similar views and backgrounds were a more reliable grounding for a relationship. And then Niall pointed out that nobody in the Circle was actually allowed to have a real relationship. unless she counted hasty, furtive couplings out of sight of the Templars, so she was not exactly speaking from experience. Alistair grinned, remembering. Petra had got so furious...
Maybe he should be looking somewhere else for a special someone. All the female Wardens seemed to have their own goals and their own agendas. Or they were too intellectual or too bossy. Or they wanted to keep to their own kind. It would be really nice if someone would put Alistair first. Just once. Other than Scrapper, of course. He glanced fondly at the mabari.
First there was Bronwyn, who Alistair had thought must be the girl of his dreams: beautiful and brave and kind to him. That last should have been a clue. Bronwyn had always treated him like a kid brother. She thought she knew what was best for him, and expected him to do as he was told. She might even love him, but it was a big sister's love. Bossy? That was too weak a word.
Leliana was really pretty and really sweet, but she had never given him any encouragement. At all. Morrigan—in that nasty way of hers—had once remarked that Leliana probably fancied Bronwyn more than Alistair.
He had thought Astrid was interested in him. She had helped a lot and really encouraged him when they were down in Ostagar together. There had been times when she had put her hand on his arm and stood close, and it had made him feel sort of... warm. Maybe if he had paid some attention in return it would have been different. Now she was off in the west, and he had no idea what she was even alive.
Adaia. He wasn't even going to think about that. He was an idiot.
Petra was really smart. Good-looking, too...
No. He wasn't going there. It was time to accept that his Grey Warden sisters were really like... sisters.
They walked, and kept walking. Alistair followed the map, proud of his acquired skills. He was getting really good at this, and traveling underground was not bad at all, when they weren't being attacked by darkspawn.
A party of Legion of the Dead was at Kal'Hirol, cleaning and repairing. Word had been sent to Orzammar, giving the specification for two sets of barrier doors. If they could be manufactured and installed, Kal'Hirol might be fairly defensible.
"Atrast vala, Wardens!" a Legionnaire greeted them.
It was a real success, the retaking of this thaig. The Grey Wardens had achieved something really important here. Bronwyn had felt that the Wardens were not doing enough to help the dwarves, but the Fereldan Wardens were making up everyone else's deficiencies. They set up camp in what used to be the market district. A lot of the Taint had been burned away already, and the dwarves were proud to point out some of the restored art work that had survived.
And all the Wardens were getting on fairly well. Alistair had not worked with Danith a great deal, and had been warned that she was touchy and hostile to humans. However, he had not had any great problem with her. She preferred the company of the other elves, but everyone had special friends among the Wardens. Nobody could claim that Danith favored the elves to the point of giving them easier duties. She certainly wasn't behaving in the way that Aeron had complained about in Velanna, whom Alistair hardly knew at all.
Best of all, it was was not snowing when they made the easy walk outside to Soldier's Peak.
"Well! This is not bad!" Oghren rumbled. "Not bad at all!"
"Not bad?" Alistair burst out. In the clear winter air, the massive outline of the castle soared up to the roof of the world; every stone, every tower realer than real. A pang of tender anguish tugged at his heart, imagining Duncan at the gate, master of the Warden's keep, at home with his brothers and sisters. If only…
He mustn't, mustn't think that way. Duncan would be proud of them, and that was no reason to be sad.
He flung out his arms, and yelled. "It's beautiful!" Scrapper jumped and barked, happy his human was happy. People began emerging from the building surrounding the open courtyard; people with friendly faces and words of welcome.
"An impressive fortress, if antiquated," Sten agreed, with measured approval. "The approach is particularly defensible. I understand that Bronwyn has ordered that steps be taken to make it self-supporting. That is wise, given the unsettled nature of this country."
The rest of the party dissolved into pleasant conversation as they made their way to the castle.
"I can't wait to see Leliana's improvements," Maeve said to Quinn. "She's already done so much!"
"I hope our quarters are nice," Adaia whispered to Siofranni. "They'd have to be pretty amazing to beat the Wardens' Compound."
Siofranni agreed. For a place built by shemlens, the Wardens' Compound was extremely comfortable—almost unnaturally so. "I think it will be pleasant to live here in the mountains," she said softly. "How blue the sky is!"
Niall touched Petra's arm. "That's the mages' tower. It doesn't have all the beautiful details or colored windows that we had at the Circle," he said, almost apologizing. "But no Templars will be watching us sleep! And we'll have private rooms... with doors."
Petra smiled. Blood mage on the premises or no, that sounded good to her.
The double doors opened.
"Alistair?" called Leliana. "Is that you? Oh, it has been so long since I saw you! You have a puppy!"
She gave him a hug, but she gave everybody a hug. It was warm inside, and Leliana immediately began showing them the place, promising food and warm drinks.
It was a good day.
Alistair liked the meal and the prospect of a decent bed. He approved, half hearing Leliana, all the plans and schemes for improvements. He let her show him the Peak, including, it seemed, every pot, every length of rope, and every barrel of apples.
"We have done all we can do before the spring," she nattered on. "The weather is too bad for glaziers and lumber wagons. In the spring we shall set to work, and in no time the Peak will be quite a different place. We have not yet gone to the Mages' Tower. You must meet Avernus, of course, but I shall let Niall make the introductions. I cannot bear that dreadful old man, and he always keeps to his tower…"
"Tower!" Alistair almost shouted. "Leliana, I saw that really tall tower. I need to go there. Can you see the sea from there?"
"I suppose so," she answered, a little confused. "The staircase is very rickety and must be repaired in the spring. It is too narrow for anything practical. There seemed little reason to go up there, and it is so dusty…"
"Humor me."
From the upper level of the main keep one could access a door. A narrow winding staircase spiraled up and up to shafts of light overhead. Startled bats squeaked and flapped out of the way. Scrapper barked and dashed after him. The tower stank of droppings and small dead animals. Alistair paid no heed to any of that, and ran up and up, round and round, chasing the elusive sunlight, until he was almost dizzy.
Abruptly he burst in bright sunshine again, stumbling on rough stone. The conical roof of the tower was almost skeletal. The battlements here—the most exposed to wind and weather—had deteriorated badly: mortar was crumbling in places, and the whole thing looked ready to collapse. Alistair noted it absently, entranced by the view, looking in every direction. He picked up Scrapper, so he could see, too.
"This is amazing!" he shouted down into the black cylinder below. "I can see everything!"
He should have brought the map up here. Another time. The northeast stretched out over a great broad plain, the rightful domain of the Wardens. He could see the Coast Road, as it curved to the south: a thin grey line against the dark green of the pines. Further south he could make out what must be a village, the nearby fields a dull patchwork of brownish squares. The west was a wild and snowy mountainscape, but in the foreground were the remains of orchards, the bare trees set in neat rows. And due north—
"The sea! The sea! I've got to tell Bronwyn!"
Beyond the mountain peaks glittered the Waking Sea, reflecting sunlight like a warrior's shield. Sea met sky: grey to burning blue, misty at the horizon. Alistair realized that he had never actually seen the sea before. Even when he was in Denerim, the Warden Compound was on the other side of the city, and Alistair always had work to do. There had been no reason to go to the docks, and no one had ever mentioned that the sea was so beautiful. No wonder people wanted to be sailors.
"Alistair!" Leliana's voice was faint and echoing. "Are you all right?"
"Yes! You should see this!"
"Come on down! You need to meet Avernus!"
Reluctantly, craning his neck to catch a last bright glimpse of the view, Alistair put down his puppy and went down the stairs, turning and turning. If this tower was not on Leliana's repair list now, it would be just as soon as he got down to her and added it himself.
His visit with Avernus was not so agreeable. Interesting, yes, but not very pleasant. The old man was creepy: creepier than Sten, even, which was saying a lot. The newcomers were given a new version of the Joining potion, and Avernus explained its advantages in detail. Maybe too much detail. Petra, on the other hand, was listening, and even asking questions. The old man wanted to keep a mage with him. He seemed really pleased with the recent crop of Wardens, which was nice, Alistair supposed. What he didn't like was the hungry gleam in the old man's eyes. If he had needed one, here was another reason for Alistair to be glad he hadn't been born a mage.
He was given a cursory tour of the big workroom, and various doors were pointed out to him. Apparently there was space for quite a few mages, and Petra and Niall vanished down a staircase to claims their own quarters. Alistair was led back to the main keep and down to the barracks and given his own, a nice little private room.
To his embarrassment, it was clear that everyone at the Peak regarded him as their Senior Warden, and—unfortunately—in charge. He supposed he was. Bronwyn had named Danith a Senior Warden, but he had nearly a year on her as a Warden. Right. He had practiced up a bit, down at Ostagar, and was not so completely hopeless as he had once been led to believe.
He was in charge, therefore. What should he do? He loved Soldier's Peak. It was a great place, and a true home for the Wardens. It would be very pleasant to lay about here at the Peak, eating and drinking and sparring, and talking about all the things they would do when more materials and craftsmen visited. But what should he do now?
There was no doubt in his mind. He should go find Bronwyn. Somewhere, out in the west, whatever was going to happen would involve her. He needed to get out there and do his part.
And so he said at breakfast the next morning. There were murmurs and whispers, but Leliana supported him.
"You are right. We have done here all that can be done for the time being. We need to look for the Archdemon. I think we should all go with Alistair."
"What?" Quinn blinked. "Already?" He had planned to go hunting today: a long walk through the white and silent forest.
"Well…" Alistair allowed. "Not this minute. The day after tomorrow we'll go to the Deep Roads. I guess some people should stay here…" He left his next thought unsaid, but it hung suspended in the air, for all sensible Wardens to understand.
...In case the worst happens.
Anders was hovering again.
"Are you sure you're up to this, Bronwyn?"
She was so irritated that she nearly punched him, but that would have been rotten of her.
Instead, she got a grip on her temper and squeezed his shoulder, with a laugh.
"Yes. I'm up to this. Moping alone in my room would be far, far worse."
Very quietly, with maximum secrecy, the Wardens were building a staircase and a wide platform at the chamber in Rousten Thaig where they found the openings to the surface. Once everything was built, they could put a regular watch on the Imperial Highway and Chateau Solidor. It was painstaking work. The stairs must be sturdy, since a large number of soldiers might well be using them someday. The rockslide had been mostly cleared away. Jukka's broken body had long since been given to the Stone. It made Bronwyn sad to be here, but it was better to face up to the task at hand and get it done, than shrinking away like a coward. Her body had healed rapidly; her spirits were still low.
Anders face assumed a most disgusted expression. "I understand the importance of keeping occupied, but these are really not the most pleasant surroundings. How about reading a nice book? Listening to music? Taking up embroidery?"
"Don't speak of embroidery to me," she warned him. "If you knew what I went through in my misspent youth..." She laughed again. "I'm a horrible seamstress. I absolutely loathe embroidery and I'm no good at it at all."
Catriona was passing by, carrying lumber, and stopped in surprise. "Really? I love to embroider. I do blackwork. It's so relaxing."
Bronwyn blinked. Catriona's family must have been quite well to do, for her to have learned a skill that was generally the preserve of young ladies. "Well, to each her own. If I need any blackwork done, I shall call upon you."
"Do. I really love it."
Toliver was enjoying his time to shine. He actually knew quite a bit about carpentry, and thus had designed the project and was supervising it. Supervising in the sense of doing much of the work. Cathair, too, knew how to work with wood, and his contribution had been to make the staircase good-looking as well as functional. The rest of the team carried lumber and nails, held the joists in position, and were occasionally permitted to hammer, once Toliver was convinced they could manage it. He had a growing regard for Aveline's skill.
The various pieces had been cut out and numbered back at the fort by sappers and civilian craftsmen, without telling them where this was to be installed. Not even Ser Blayne or Ser Norrel knew exactly where the Queen had taken the load of lumber.
Well, of course Ser Norrel knew nothing. Bronwyn hoped it was as unpleasant for him as it was for her to live under the same roof. In fact, it was a major factor in her going back into the Deep Roads. The project was important, and it got her away from a man who had dared to call himself Bann of Highever City. And not only that, but who had supervised the looting of her home and had not given a decent pyre to her family. How very nice that he had been so loyal to his liege lord. Bronwyn would never forgive him.
He was playing his part, however; that she must admit. She had ordered him to see if he had any mountaineers among his troops, and he had found some excellent men. Someday, they might find a way into the Rock, and it would not happen by storming the castle from below. No. Perhaps the way could be achieved by ropes and grappling hooks on a moonless night.
Morrigan much preferred flying, as she put it, "to grubbing about in the Deep Roads like a worm." Nor was she interested in learning carpentry.
Because of this, Bronwyn found her a task far more to her taste: the minute scouting and infiltration of both Chateau Solidor and Roc du Chevalier. There were few places that a hawk could not penetrate. She would return, report what she had seen, and correct Bronwyn as the latter made detailed schematics of the buildings.
Sometimes Anders went with her; sometimes she went alone. She was shot at a few times, and once a young hopeful falconer tried to catch her. It was amusing to tease the youth, but she had serious business.
The wind rushed past, lifting her up, up. Icy air was foiled by fluffed brown feathers. She soared and looped through lofty towers, she discovered sally ports and hidden defenses, she looked down on open courtyards and secret gardens. No one was in the gardens, due to the cold weather, but they might still be interesting.
Today she visited the Chateau. and decided to penetrate to the place that Bronwyn said must be the ladies' bower. Large windows looked out upon in, and thus Bronwyn thought that the windows must belong to the solar. Morrigan thought it would be interesting to see who lived in such a place. She dropped like a stone, and then alighted easily on a bare mulberry branch. A door was nearby, which would let out into the private little pleasure ground on warm days. Unusually large windows let in the sunlight.
This was the top of one of the bigger towers. There was a watchpost beneath them, since apparently soldiers were not permitted to ascend to the very top. Very likely this was a safe and secure haven for the lord of the castle.
Edging forward on a twig, she peered in through a mullioned window.
Not the lord, then. His wife and daughters? Or sisters? The frosted panes hid details, even from the keen eyes of a hawk. The room was opulent: filled with glittering knickknacks and draped with rich silks. Two of occupants of the room were well-dressed elves, certainly servants, who were attending four gorgeously attired human women, one much older than the others. Three of the women sat in throne-like carved chairs, heaped with velvet cushions. A fire was blazing, framed by a marble mantlepiece. One woman was reading, one was sewing on a huge embroidery hoop, another—the old lady—was feeding a fat little lapdog sweetmeats from a painted box. The fourth, who appeared to be the youngest, was walking restlessly about the room. It was not long before Morrigan was noticed.
"Oh, look!" cried the young lady, pausing in her pacing. "The poor bird! It must be so cold!"
Hawks, alas, could only smirk inwardly. Morrigan fluffed up her feathers to the puffiest degree, and shivered pathetically. Instantly, bolts were thrown and the door was cracked open.
"Here, you poor little thing! Come and get warm." Morrigan was annoying by the simpering, high-pitched Orlesian voice. And she was not a 'little thing.' The girl was speaking to her as if to a babe in arms. Still, a warm fire was a warm fire. Morrigan cocked her head as if considering the matter. The girl opened the door further.
"Eglantine!" complained the embroideress. "You are making a draught!"
Seizing her chance, Morrigan flew in and perched on a gilded lampstand. Aside from the girl at the door, every female in the overdecorated solar shrieked in alarm.
"Ah! A bird!" screamed the reader, dropping her book. "It will dirty the portières!"
"It will tangle its horrible claws in my hair!" screeched the embroideress.
The old lady squawked, "It will eat my poor little Chou-chou!"
Morrigan had no idea what "portieres" were, but the rest sounded like fairly good fun. The dog was certainly just the right size. Perhaps later. She was here to spy, not to terrorize useless females, so she demurely hid her head under her wing, looking put-upon.
"How can you be so cruel?" cried the young girl. "It is a perfectly beautiful creature." She gave a little curtsey to Morrigan."Bonjour, Monseigneur Faucon."
Amused, Morrigan lowered her wing and stretched out her neck, almost bowing in her turn. The girl laughed in delight. It gave Morrigan a chance to study the occupants of the room. The three girls ranged in age from no older than seventeen to perhaps twenty-seven. They were not bad-looking, if one liked golden hair and hands that had never done labor. The old lady was not so comely: corpulent, daubed with heavy cosmetics, and wearing an immense—and immensely curly— red wig. She glittered with some quite nice jewels. Morrigan eyed them with a touch of envy. Something else to pursue later, perhaps.
The youngest girl cautiously reached out and stroked the hawk's head with a delicate forefinger. Morrigan permitted the caress, aware that it would be the easiest thing in the world to snap the finger right off the silly girl's hand.
"You see? The poor creature simply craved shelter. It is not screaming and crying, though who could blame it, enduring such a noise!"
The old lady's jowls quivered with fear and rage. "Eglantine, I command you to get rid of that filthy creature immediately!" The lapdog, used to echoing its mistress, uttered a wheezy little bark. Morrigan cocked her head. She could wolf down the creature in a flash. As if sensing its precarious situation, Chou-chou cowered among vast purple velvet skirts.
"No, I will not!" the girl replied, saucily defiant. "You might have robbed me of my kitten and you might have had my white ferret killed, Madame la Comtesse, but I shall make a pet of this beautiful hawk, even if only for a moment."
"You will do as I say!" snarled the old woman. "The Empress gave you into my care, and put you under my direction. She has no use for traitors, cousins or no. You should thank me on your knees that you have not been kneeling to the headsman instead, long ago!"
"I'm not a traitor, you miserable old cow!"
"Eglantine, don't!" whispered the reader, a girl some years older. "You'll just make it worse."
"I don't care!" Eglantine shot back. "I'm sick of her petty tyrannies and little cruelties. The hawk stays!"
"Then I," said the old lady, glaring at the girl, "shall send for the captain of the guard and he will make short work of this creature! I shall have it killed and plucked and roasted for your dinner! How will you like that, Your Imperial Highness?"
More screaming. The girl who had been embroidering knocked her frame over and began pleading with the old battleaxe.
"Please, Madame Coquelicot, the bird has done nothing. Eglantine, apologize to Madame la Comtesse."
"I won't!" shouted Eglantine, "Celandine, she is foul and vile and I hate her! I hate her!" Her voice broke, and she began crying.
"You! Wench!" the old woman pointed at one of the frightened elf girls. "Fetch Monsieur le Meurtrier at once!"
The girl fled, calling for the guardsman. Spurred to action, Eglantine rushed to the door and flung it wide.
"Fly! Fly away, Monseigneur Faucon! Fly before it is too late!"
Absurd theatrics, really, but it was certainly time to be off. Morrigan had learned all she would today from this pack of dithering imbeciles. She took off and flapped around the room, creating maximum chaos. Women shrieked and clutched at their hair, their jewels, their hearts; they made little futile gestures with lily-white hands. The embroideress, overcome, slumped fainting among her cushions. The lapdog wheezed out a series of shrill barks. Morrigan dived at him and sent him fleeing under a chair.
"Chou-chou!" wailed the old lady, but Morrigan was not done with her. The hawk's talons extended, and a furry object was snatched away, to the horror of all. Morrigan banked and speeded through the open door. Just past the battlements, she dropped the furball with careless malice.
The girls all shrieked with horror, thinking that Chou-chou would be dead before he hit the ground below. The old Countess was shrieking too, but not with any fear for her dog. Chou-chou was quite safe under the chair.
The Comtesse Coquelicot's wig, however, was doomed.
Her spirits much lifted by Morrigan's tales of high adventure, Bronwyn thought about the story, and tried to dredge up bits of what her tutor Aldous had taught her about Orlesian genealogy. It had been a long time since she had thought about it. The Empress had trounced a number of her uncles in her successful bid for the throne. Who was this Eglantine? If she was an Imperial Princess, she must be the daughter of one of those quondam uncles. Bronwyn had heard that they were dead. Celene had not killed all their children, of course, since they were useful as pawns or playthings.
Eglantine. Had she read that name somewhere? Possibly, but there were quite a few Imperial princes and princesses, and their names ran together in her memory. She remembered Prince Florestan, of course, the one that Howe had believed she was going to marry. Bronwyn's imagination failed—in epic fashion—to imagine a world in which she herself was a mask-wearing, Game-playing Orlesian Imperial Princess. I
This girl was, though, which could make her a useful hostage. What of the other young women? They had addressed her by name, which suggested that they must be sisters or at least close relations. In the privacy of their solar, the ladies had not worn masks, which enabled Morrigan to describe them in detail.
Of course, the Empress might also consider herself well rid of them if they were taken. Perhaps she would smirk and tell the Fereldans to do as they liked. No, Bronwyn set aside the exciting plan as impractical. Solidor was worth a great deal, a captive princess was not.
Jader was worth more than a double handful of Orlesian princesses. Loghain's plan so far simply involved infiltrating Jader and damaging its facilities, making it unusable as a base from which to attack Ferelden. The more she thought about it, however, the more Bronwyn wished they could simply annex Jader. Brosca's stories about made it sound so very rich and glamorous. It would round out their west border so very nicely. A foolish dream, of course, but a beautiful one.
She returned to Gherlen's Halt to unarmor and wash, with the new information churning in her mind. As long as Morrigan was willing, she had an unparalleled opportunity to find out more about the enemy's strongholds. She must send Morrigan to the Rock again. Tomorrow, perhaps.
The cressets were lit, and they were summoned to dinner. The unappealing stodgy food was gobbled down by hungry Wardens, Bronwyn among them. Her people were cheerful enough. They did not speak openly of what they had been up to, but there were grins and winks and smug looks. For that matter, the morale of the garrison as a whole seemed fairly good. Some of that was certainly due to Loghain's appearance. Bronwyn hoped that some was due to her presence.
Her mind was too awhirl to sit and listen to jokes and stories. As soon as her dinner was complete, she retired from the hall. Everyone rose and bowed, and she gave them a grave nod of acknowledgment. Anders watched her anxiously, not entirely reassured by her wry smile. She was not alone, after all. Scout was at her heels, keeping pace with a mabari's natural dignity.
Her quarters were the best the fort afforded, but they were spare and gloomy enough. A narrow window looked west, giving her a fine view of Roc du Chevalier: splendid and ominous. The castle was too primitive for fireplaces, and thus her room was heated with a brazier filled with charcoal. There was a bed with a lumpy mattress, and a rough table with a candlestick and two unlovely chairs set opposite to one another. A trunk for her clothing, a weapons stand, and another stand for her armor composed the rest of the furnishings. At the moment the red dragon armor was displayed on the stand, like another Bronwyn, keeping watch by the door.
A servant lit her candle and added charcoal to her fire, and was dismissed.
She paced around the room, vaguely uneasy. The window drew her, and she gazed out for some time at the Rock, white in the moonlight. She paced a little more, her thoughts in thorough disorder. After some time she paused, studying her armor. Scout raised his head from his blanket in the corner, and then got up and padded over to her. His human needed companionship and attention.
"Scout, you are absolutely my best friend," she said, her hand falling comfortingly on the silky head.
That was too true for comment, so the mabari simply stood alert, pressing warmly against her leg.
"We mustn't let ourselves be distracted. It would be too easy to focus on the Orlesians and forget about the darkspawn. I hate both of them, of course, but there are some good Orlesians, like Riordan, and no good darkspawn at all."
She drifted back to the table, Scout at her side. and picked through the platter of snacks she had commanded to be provided whenever she was in the castle. She tossed Scout a rind of smoked cheese—his favorite—and then a piece of venison sausage. She popped another piece in her own mouth and munched, thinking.
"On the other hand, the Archdemon did not choose to be hunted down and Tainted, while the Empress does choose to be vicious and underhanded and greedy. Then, too she could, I suppose, repent of her evil ways—not that I expect it— while the Archdemon cannot free itself of the Taint. If one looks at it that way, one could say that the Empress is actually more evil than the Archdemon, since she harms others of her own free will."
Another piece of sausage. It was quite good. Why could they have perfectly nice cheese and sausage, while the cook could only make the same undistinguished stew, night after night?
"And I'm simply wasting my time," she continued, explaining her thoughts to Scout. "I'm wasting my time trying to choose between them. They're not likely to give me a choice. Each of them is equally my enemy, and I can only hope they don't attack simultaneously. That would be... unfortunate."
Scout regarded her gravely, and then gave a slow blink. Then another.
"And yes, we should go to bed! Off with you!"
The mabari found his blanket, turned around three times, and settled down with a grateful sigh. Bronwyn blew out the candle and undressed in the dim firelight of the brazier.
"Ugh!"
The bedclothes were freezing. That was one thing Loghain was good for: warming her bed. Literally. Still, this time alone would clear her head of nonsense and regrets. She composed herself for sleep, brushing aside tomorrow's tasks with grim resolve, slowing her breathing, until sleep came to her...
That night she dreamed that she was once again in Highever.
The castle was so much larger than she remembered, and full of friends and smiling faces. Mist clung to corners and tangled in her hair. Bronwyn moved from room to room, absently answering greetings from people she knew well. In the guest quarters Lady Landra smiled at her, for once not tipsy, though she lifted a silver chalice in salute. Iona reached out, touching her shyly.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for caring for my child."
She was gone, whipped away as Bronwyn descended a staircase. In the library, Aldous was tutoring those two little squires. He looked up, faded eyes crinkling, pleased at the sight of her. In the study, Dairren was reading. He glanced at her, his smile a little rueful. He lifted up the book for her to see.
"The Dragons of Tevinter. It's really interesting. You should read it again. Carefully."
"Have you seen my parents?"
"They're in the Great Hall."
She found herself in the kitchen first, though. Nan stared at her, and then crushed her in her arms.
"You're not supposed to be here yet. What are you up to this time?"
"Oh, Nan! I'm so glad you're not really dead!"
"Of course I'm not. Nobody's ever really dead. Pass me the flour. Now you get on to the Great Hall, and don't keep people waiting."
Bronwyn whispered, pointing at the door to the larder. "They're not in there, are they? I can't bear to look."
More gently, Nan replied, "Of course they're not there. Why would they want to be in there?"
She was abruptly at the door to the Great Hall, and gave it a tentative push. It was very bright inside, and far more beautiful than it ought to be. Cheerful talk and laughter drew her to the great hearth. Her people were expecting her.
Oriana said, "We have a visitor!" Next to her was a handsome young man, painfully like Fergus.
"Oren?"
"Did you think I'd be a child forever?"
"You're taller than I am!"
"That I am, Auntie. Our time is not your time."
"Pup," said her youthful, carefree father, his hair as dark as her own, smiling in mild rebuke. "Did you have to ignore absolutely everything I told you?"
"It wasn't you," she whispered. "it wasn't you I spoke to in the Gauntlet."
"It was and it wasn't, but I was certainly there, and I hold to what was said. Still, becoming a Queen of Ferelden is a very great accomplishment. We're very proud of you. But now you need to meet Trystan."
Her mother, radiantly beautiful, kissed her, and drew a young man near.
"This is Trystan."
"Trystan."
Bronwyn stared, bewildered, at the tall figure. He was broad-shouldered and lean, his long hair dark brown and waving, his eyes glittering like pieces of sky. He looked at her quizzically, almost teasing. He had a strong nose, and his dark brows drew together in a way she knew well.
"He came to us," said Eleanor, "and we named him. I've always liked the name Trystan. He was never alone, you see."
The boy touched her cheek, and spoke, his voice warm and mellow. It seemed that she had known this voice all the days of her life.
"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."
They were not alone in the Great Hall, nor was this really the Great Hall. It swelled and soared, higher and wider, and was filled with people with her nose or her jaw, or with her father's smile. They were her grandmothers and great-great-grandfathers; her great-great-granduncles and distant cousins. There were other people, too, more and more of them: a tall man with his arm around a pretty woman with Loghain's eyes. Sitting by their feet was a beautiful mabari with a shining chestnut coat. Against the wall leaned a young woman with a silverite sword and a roguish grin. Bronwyn recognized her from a picture as Bryn Cousland, a heroine of the early Rebellion. There was Princess Deirdre Therin and King Darlan himself. And there was an elf! He winked at her and put his fingers to his lips for silence. There were more elves, taller and fairer than she had ever seen before. Everyone was here, elves, dwarves, and humans: people she had never known; people she had killed; people who had tried to kill her. She shut her eyes briefly, frightened at what she might see next. The Hall grew and swelled, and encompassed all the world.
Wynne's voice whispered in her ear. "It's going to be all right. In the end, everything is always all right."
And just as the ceiling cracked open, and a great golden light suffused them all, Bronwyn felt something tremble under her feet; and she fell, down, down, down, into darkness, grasping futilely at the roots of Heaven.
Time passed endlessly as she hurtled down; past mountains and sea, past the limits of the upper world. At length she thudded onto hard stone. Furious, she hissed, and flames licked at Tainted walls under the earth. Her tail flicked out, and rocks cracked and splintered.
The Archdemon, triumphant, gazed down into the abyss. Thousands of lights glittered in the chasm; torches held by her minions. The horde was gathered...it was hers... it was ready. Her scouts were climbing, up to the hated and desired surface, shivering under the waning moon. Scabby hands pawed at the snow; hideous faces lifted into the icy wind. They listened, expectant, for the liquid song of melting water. In vain.
So. It was not yet time. But it would be, very soon.
Thanks to my reviewers: Evil-Overlord, Nemrut, RakeeshJ4, Phygmalion, EmbertoInferno, Ellyanah, Chandagnac, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Blinded in a bolthole, reality deviant, Tirion I, dragonblade3200, MsBarrows, Mike3207, darksky01, KnightOfHolyLight, sizuka2, mr I hate znt nobles kill em, shywriter413, Zute, Herebedragons66, JackOfBladesX, brrt, have Socks. Will Travel, Halm Vendrella, EpitomyofShyness, almostinsane, anon, Jenna53, Psyche Sinclair, Girl-chama, jnybot, zeitlos, bladerunner12-57, mille libri, and RB23G.
Trystan Mac Tir quotes the Canticle of Trials, 1:10.
RB23G: I'll compose a reply to your very interesting review for the next chapter, since I didn't have your reply link. Publishing deadlines make it impossible to get it out with the current chapter.